


‘...and perhaps if I was very lucky, you’d let me kiss you goodnight.’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assumptions, Fic Exchange, First Kiss, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-23 19:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: He makes endless lists.





	‘...and perhaps if I was very lucky, you’d let me kiss you goodnight.’

Aziraphale plans their third date with some care. 

* * *

The first had been far, far too close to the Apoca-not. That would have been tasteless and they had other things to think about in any case. 

The second had been too ad hoc: an impromptu dinner at a pub that had the best bitter Aziraphale had had since the dinner for the consecration of York Minster and a session band Crowley liked. 

But the third Aziraphale has taken entirely into his own hands and he’s going to make it _perfect._

* * *

He makes endless lists: Crowley’s favorite foods, wines, liquors, music, the things Crowley will enjoy if they’re together but never seek out on his own. He cross-references lists: how close is that excellent little Thai restaurant to the bookstore? What if they come back to the bookstore via St James and a new gelato stand Aziraphale has heard is marvellous? Will Crowley be willing to forego alcohol with the meal if Aziraphale promises him something truly spectacular afterwards? Does Aziraphale _have_ something truly spectacular to offer him? That question leads to several hours with notebook, flashlight, and duster in the cellar and the relieved remembrance that, yes, indeed, he does.

In the end, all the lists point to one thing: no park bench and no restaurant, no matter how cosy or select or familiar, will provide half the comfort of the back room of the bookshop if Aziraphale puts a little effort into it.

* * *

‘You’ve been redecorating,’ is all Crowley says when he steps inside and, where Aziraphale not concentrating so hard on not vibrating about the room, he might be a little miffed by the tone of surprise. 

‘Yes, well, I thought... ‘ He waves his hands about to indicate the room in general and just stops himself from a nervous giggle. ‘After Adam was so immensely kind as to -- well, yes. I have. A little.’

Crowley’s eyebrows draw together over his shades and he looks at Aziraphale for a long moment before shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching into the room, giving it the assessing once-over he gives everything.

It was really more of a sprucing up of things already there than a wholesale replacement: Aziraphale has had the rug had cleaned for the first time since the mid-nineteenth century; has had the couch and chairs re-upholstered in a fabric which was as close to the original as Aziraphale had been able to find; there isn’t a speck of dust in sight and the woodwork around the room gleams with a combination of good oil and angelic elbow grease. He’d miracled the chimney clean: the possibilities for damage to the books should a sweep make an error were just too nerve-wracking.

The fire is lit now from Aziraphale’s usual supply of firewood with the addition of a few pinecones that snap in the flame. The peonies, half-open in a vase on the small table at Crowley’s usual end of the couch, were finds from the tiny open market in the next street. The bottle of wine and glasses on the table, on the other hand, are old, as old as Aziraphale’s residence in London.

‘S’nice,’ Crowley offers, dropping into his usual spot and leaning over to take a sniff at the flowers. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Well.’ Aziraphale flutters slightly before clenching his hands tightly together. _Get a grip on yourself,_ he chides himself silently. ‘I just thought -- with the -- the unpleasantness behind us now and --’ Crowley’s looking at him and Aziraphale’s thoughts scatter. ‘--well, things are _different_ now, aren’t they?’

Crowley nods slowly. ‘I suppose they are.’ He reaches out and tweaks a peony out of the vase, twirling it between long fingers before grinning at Aziraphale. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.’ He puts the flower between his teeth and wiggles his eyebrows.

Aziraphale squeaks and tries to cover it with a cough.

Crowley spits out the flower and shoves it back in the vase. ‘Seriously, though, what’s the occasion? I feel like I must’ve forgotten something.’

‘Would you like some wine?’ Aziraphale says, slightly too fast, and busies himself with the glasses.

‘Sure, yeah.’ 

When Aziraphale turns around with a glass in each hand, Crowley has taken off his sunglasses and is looking at him narrowly. He takes his glass with a nod. ‘What’ve I missed, angel?’

‘Nothing!’ Aziraphale takes his seat at the other end of the couch. ‘Nothing at all, my dear. I just wanted something a little -- special for our evening. That’s all.’

‘Special?’ Crowley echoes and takes a sip of wine. His eyebrows shoot back up and he holds the glass out at arms’ length to stare at it. ‘This is -- _angel--’_

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale agrees and takes a sip himself. ‘The last bottle, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you -- you didn’t _miracle_ this!’

‘Oh, no, no. I’d never get the flavor right. No, I found it in a corner. Must’ve overlooked it all these years.’ Which is, strictly speaking, true; he _had_ overlooked it, quite deliberately, on many occasions. 

Crowley sets down his glass and turns towards Aziraphale. ‘Look, just tell me, okay? We don’t have birthdays, so it can’t be that. It’s not that… December thing you like so much. Or the spring one.’

‘Truly, Crowley--’

‘Well, _those_ are your special things, not some random Thursday in September!’ Crowley protests.

Aziraphale takes another mouthful of wine, then leans forward to put his glass down. ‘Well, it isn’t really random, is it? You’re here, I’m here, the _world_ is here.’

Crowley frowns at him. ‘Look, just tell me what it is and I’ll pretend to apologize and we can get on with it, all right?’

‘You haven’t forgotten anything,’ Aziraphale insists. ‘I just thought our third evening should be a little -- special.’

‘Our third evening,’ Crowley repeats, brow furrowing more deeply. He shakes his head and picks up his wine again. 

Aziraphale sighs. ‘Well, it’s a little foolish for beings of our age to call them _dates,_ but I suppose--’

Crowley chokes on his mouthful of wine and a tiny wave sloshes over the brim of his glass onto the brocade of the couch.

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale is on his feet before he thinks. He has no fear that Crowley will choke to death but that brocade is _antique_ \-- it had taken him forever to match!

Crowley turns and spits his mouthful into the fire, puts down his glass, and turns very slowly to stare at Aziraphale. ‘Date?’

Crowley has his arm directly over the stain as if it doesn’t matter what damage the centuries-old wine will do to silk or the brocade and-- ‘May I just--’ 

Aziraphale begins and Crowley waves a hand impatiently, leaving the couch and his sleeve dry. ‘Oh, thank you, my dear.’

‘Angel. _Date?’_ Crowley repeats, leaning forward slightly to stare at Aziraphale from closer range.

‘Well. Yes.’ Aziraphale can’t resist running his hand over the couch just to make sure -- then he stands back and pulls his waistcoat straight. Really, Crowley is making a terrible fuss over nothing. ‘What else would it be?’

‘I -- _date?’_

Aziraphale sniffs. ‘Not much of one if that’s all you can say. Really, Crowley--’

Crowley gapes, then waves a hand at Aziraphale. ‘Oh, no -- no, no, no, you do not get to stand there and tell me this is -- this is a _date_ and then get all--’ He shakes his head impatiently and flicks his fingers at Aziraphale. ‘--like _that_ when I point out that is a pretty fucking _weird_ thing to say!’

Aziraphale purses his lips. ‘As I _said_ \-- it’s a rather pointless term for the two of us. Our actual third date would have been -- what?’ He looks at the fire for a minute. ‘Ah, yes: Constantinople. The city walls. During an invasion. Hardly romantic.’

‘Ro--’ Crowley’s voice vanishes and his lips shape the last syllables without any sound. 

‘Well,’ Aziraphale amends. ‘Perhaps for you. You’ve always enjoyed mayhem more than I. But I thought we agreed that attack was a terrible mess. Did no-one any good and destroyed countless treasures.’

Crowley licks his lips slowly, then closes his mouth with a snap. He looks at Aziraphale for a long moment, face absolutely expressionless. ‘Why are you doing this? Where did you _get_ all this?’ He waves a hand around the room and Aziraphale follows the gesture, not entirely sure what Crowley’s talking about.

‘Er, well, most of it from the storeroom, if you can believe it. It’s really amazing what I’ve squirreled away in there over the years--’

_‘No,_ angel.’ Crowley’s voice could cut ice. ‘Where did you get this _idea?’_

Aziraphale stares at him, unsure whether to be offended that Crowley apparently thinks him incapable of coming up with a romantic evening on his own or-- But Crowley’s _hurt,_ radiating it, and that isn’t what Aziraphale intended.

‘I tried to think of things that you -- that we like,’ he says honestly, gesturing in the direction of his desk. Crowley pushes himself to his feet and stalks in that direction; Aziraphale lets him shuffle among the papers, picking up one sheet and then another, squinting at Aziraphale’s spidery handwriting. 

‘You made lists,’ Crowley says, his voice carefully neutral.

‘Yes?’ Aziraphale tries.

‘You know that place in Holborn burned in 1952, right?’

‘Yes, but the baker’s daughter had his cookbook. The new place is really very similar.’ 

Crowley nods slowly, turning over some more sheets. ‘But where did you _get_ all this?’

‘Get all _what,_ Crowley? I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’

Crowley shakes a handful of papers at him. ‘All this. All these -- all these _things_ you think I like!’

Aziraphale blinks, interlacing his fingers to keep from worrying at the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘Well...don’t you?’

‘Yes!’ Crowley throws down the papers and comes back to the fire. ‘That’s not the point! How did you _know?’_

‘How did I --’ Aziraphale stares at him before realising that the question is quite serious. ‘Crowley. My dear. You may not have realised it but we have known each other for quite some time.’

‘Yes but--’

‘And you do tend to make your likes and dislikes known.’

‘And...and so you make a bunch of lists and…’ Crowley raises his hands, indicating the room like a stage magician indicating his set. ‘And come up with this. _Why?’_

‘I thought it would be nice to -- to be ourselves. Without worrying if one of our sides would catch us. Without--’ He stops. Crowley is just _staring_ at him, golden eyes wide. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about.’

Crowley shakes his head wordlessly.

‘You -- you have no idea what I’m talking about.’ Aziraphale swallows and wonders if this is what humans mean when they talk of ‘feeling sick,’ a kind of dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

The past rewinds like a film strip: every time Aziraphale had looked at Crowley and felt sure that they understood each other; every time Crowley had caught his eye and smiled, a tiny expression just meant for the two of them; every treat Crowley had brought him; every story he had told Crowley. ‘Oh… Oh, my.’

He swallows again and fumbles for the arm of the couch. Crowley’s hands are on his shoulders, helping him sit down, but Aziraphale can’t quite see him. Instead, he’s seeing a long progression of days on which, apparently, he had been nothing but an unmitigated fool. 

‘Angel?’ Crowley’s voice seems to come from some distance. ‘Aziraphale. Look at me.’

Aziraphale binks and refocuses his eyes; Crowley’s kneeling at his feet, his hands on Aziraphale’s knees, and Aziraphale could cry to think that he had imagined this happening a thousand times and never once like this. 

‘I seem to have been a bit of a fool,’ Aziraphale says, surprised to hear his own voice so calm and even. ‘I’m -- I’m so very sorry.’

Crowley looks at him closely for a minute. ‘What, exactly, are you apologizing for?’

‘For assuming I -- _we_ understood each other. That we wanted the same thing.’ Aziraphale smiles, or tries to, and touches himself on the chest. ‘For assuming _I_ was what you wanted.’ Now he pauses to think about it, of course, it’s ridiculous. Crowley likes sleek, likes black, likes _new_ and Aziraphale is none of those things.

Crowley blinks at him, slowly and deliberately, then holds up a hand. ‘Wait.’ Still on one knee, he twists around to the table, fills his wine glass, empties his at a swallow, refills it, then turns back, holding out the glass to Aziraphale.

‘It isn’t meant to be taken like _medicine--’_ Aziraphale tries to protest, then sighs, and drains his glass.

‘Good.’ Crowley takes Aziraphale’s glass back. ‘Now. Tell me what you thought was going on this evening.’

‘Now who’s being cruel,’ Aziraphale says softly, looking down at his hands.

‘Please. In honor of a long friendship.’ 

Crowley’s voice is nothing but earnest and Aziraphale sighs. ‘I thought it would be pleasant to have a -- a special evening. For ourselves.’ He closes his eyes; he can’t look Crowley in the face and say the rest. ‘I thought it would be nice to have an evening to ourselves to do whatever we liked without worrying about being discorporated should anyone find out. I thought it would be nice if we could sit and drink our wine and -- and tell each other stories and -- and perhaps if I was very lucky, you’d let me kiss you goodnight.’ He finishes in a rush, the words tumbling out over each other.

‘And you thought I -- knew about this.’

‘Oh, _Crowley--’_ Aziraphale puts a hand over his eyes.

‘Just -- please? Tell me?’ 

‘Yes! Yes, I thought you knew. I thought -- I thought we had an understanding.’ Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the tears back where they came from and adds bitterly, ‘You really don’t have to put any more effort into making it clear I was wrong. I can take a hint.’

‘Angel.’

‘Oh, _please_ stop calling me that!’

‘Aziraphale. _My_ angel,’ Crowley repeats, slowly, and deliberately, and Aziraphale feels his cool fingers on the back of his own hand, pulling his hand down and away. ‘Do you have any idea why I was...upset just now?’

Aziraphale sighs, then sniffs, shaking his head and opening his eyes. ‘No. Not really.’

‘I thought you’d been -- poking around when you were in my head. I thought you’d seen how much I wanted -- how much I always wanted -- us to...’ Crowley fumbles then gives a tentative half-smile that nearly breaks Aziraphale’s heart on the spot. ‘...to be here. To have...’ He hesitates, then gestures at the room. '..._this.’_

Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley makes no attempt to evade his eyes although it clearly takes him a bit of effort to stay still. He’s still on his knees, Aziraphale’s hand loosely held in one of his. 

The room is quiet for so long that the crack of a piece of wood in the fireplace sounds like shattering glass and Crowley flinches. ‘Well.’ He runs the tip of his tongue over his lips and shoves himself to his feet. ‘This has been -- fun but I’ve got an appointment with the Thames, so--’

‘You what?’ Aziraphale blinks up at him.

Crowley jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Just gonna pop along and drown m’self for a bit.’

‘You can’t drown.’

‘The point is the _effort,_ angel.’

Aziraphale shakes his head and reaches up to catch Crowley’s hand, weaving their fingers together, a little startled at his own audacity in so doing. ‘No. No, I think you should stay here. Drowning’s wet and tiresome. You wouldn’t like it. A waste of effort.’

‘Seems to me like I’ve made this whole evening a waste of effort.’ Crowley gestures vaguely at the room at large and frowns at Aziraphale. ‘Sorry.’

‘What do you have to apologize for? _My_ assumptions? That’s just foolish.’

Crowley swallows, the bob in his throat evident even in the dim light. ‘Perhaps I’m apologizing for letting them be assumptions.’

Aziraphale tugs gently on his hand and Crowley lets himself be guided back to his seat. Aziraphale watches him settle himself, then clears his throat. ‘I think -- I think we should start this evening over.’

Crowley nods cautiously. ‘All right by me.’

Aziraphale considers trying to let the rest be unspoken, an understanding -- but look where that’s gotten them. ‘It seems to me that we have both thought things obvious which were -- not.’

‘Seems likely.’

‘And I think I’ve done you a disservice by lying to you.’

‘Angel, no -- no, you never -- _I--’_

‘You concealed. I -- dissembled,’ Aziraphale says, feeling himself blush. 

‘It’s not like I ever _asked_ you,’ Crowley says, finger and thumb fiddling with his cuff buttons. ‘Not like I ever said _hey, angel, d’you fancy a go_ and you said _no, thanks, dear boy, I’ve got to arrange my shelves this evening._’

Aziraphale blinks at him and Crowley makes a vague gesture with one hand towards his hair. ‘The human thing. Y’know? _Not tonight, dear, I’ve got to wash my hair_\--? No? Never mind.’

‘A _go?’_ Aziraphale repeats and Crowley goes red to the roots of his hair. ‘I was thinking of perhaps one day kissing you goodnight and you were thinking of having a _go.’_

Crowley winces. ‘Well -- I -- I mean, it was -- not really but--’

Aziraphale can’t help it: he laughs. And once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. He’s aware of Crowley staring at him but he can’t make himself stop laughing. It’s all so bloody _stupid._ Here they are, two immortal beings of unimaginable power, created to make the universe, on Earth since the dawn of time, and they’ve managed to screw up something humans -- _humans!_ The beings he and Crowley had been tasked to watch over -- do regularly throughout their lives with as little thought as taking a shower. 

Aziraphale manages to calm himself down after a few minutes; by then, Crowley’s smiling at him rather cautiously but Aziraphale can see the tension in his shoulders, his fingertips digging into the brocade cushion between them. 

Aziraphale dries his eyes, takes a deep breath, and pulls himself straight. ‘My dear. I think there is one thing we have done excellently well over the years.’

‘Drink?’ 

‘Well, two things, perhaps. I was thinking of meeting in the middle.’ Slowly, so Crowley has full opportunity to draw back, Aziraphale puts his hand on the cushion and edges his fingers towards Crowley’s.

Crowley mutters something and grabs Aziraphale’s hand, firmly lacing their fingers together. When Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him, Crowley shrugs. ‘You know I don’t do patient well.’ 

‘On the contrary,’ Aziraphale says, using Crowley’s hand as an anchor to ease himself along the couch until their knees are touching and the fire feels far hotter than it has any right to. ‘If what you tell me is true...’ He pauses and Crowley nods, his cheeks turning a most fetching shade of pink. ‘...then I think you have displayed quite incredible patience.’

‘So have you,’ Crowley says quietly. ‘And you were the one who thought of -- all this.’ He waves a hand around the room. 

‘Then I think we both deserve a reward, don’t you?’ Aziraphale suggests, his throat going dry as he says it and that’s another human thing he hadn’t quite understood until this minute but it really is very much as if all the moisture in his mouth simply vanished with the effort of speaking. 

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, then almost visibly changes his mind, and leans forward.

Aziraphale swallows hard and leans forward in his turn so they do, in fact, meet in the middle. It’s not much, a dry brush of lips, but Crowley makes a sound in his throat that makes Aziraphale’s heart beat faster and when they pull apart a moment later, Aziraphale finds he’s snugged himself along Crowley’s side, Crowley’s arm is over his shoulders, and their clasped hands are resting comfortably on Crowley’s thigh. 

Crowley clears his throat. ‘Is -- was that -- what you wanted?’

‘Oh, my dear,’ Aziraphale sighs, reaching up with his free hand to touch Crowley’s chin, thumb gently over his lower lip. ‘So very much.’ 

Crowley watches him for a minute and, just as Aziraphale is about to start feeling anxious that it wasn’t what _Crowley_ wanted, he smiles and leans forward. ‘Good.’ He nuzzles along Aziraphale’s cheekbone and breathes, ‘Me, too,’ against Aziraphale’s lips before kissing him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> For lovecrimeherown for the 2019 Good Omens Fanworks Exchange. The prompt was "Aziraphale thinking they’ve been dating this whole time, Crowley trying to hide his crush."
> 
> Thanks to [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane), [Jaydeun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun), and [Catchclaw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw) for multiple incredibly patient betas!


End file.
